


The Exile of Alhazred

by WarlordFelwinter



Series: Destiny / OC-centric [17]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: after toland got exiled but before osiris did, early-mid city age, i mean its alhazred after all, some lovecraftian stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlordFelwinter/pseuds/WarlordFelwinter
Summary: R'lyehian Translation: You are a dead thing made by a dead power in the shape of the dead.(from The Black Garden grimoire card, thrown into a R'lyehian translator, so the literal translation is somewhat whack, but it's close enough)





	The Exile of Alhazred

_What inspiration do you find in the Light? Does it keep you safe in the deep, dark night?_

He was a poet, he said. It was what he told the Speaker, who told him he was a Warlock. It was what he told the Vanguard, who told him he was a warrior. It was what he told Osiris, who told him he was a scholar. It was what he told the people, who told him he was a leader.

He was magnetic; a voice like honey and a sly gaze that gave the impression of hidden knowledge. He was not unlike Osiris. Sought after by scholars and politicians alike for all manner of positions of power. He turned them all down, and told them he was a poet.

_Does the Traveler sing to you? Can you hear the music of the spheres? The secrets the stars whisper to each other are not meant for mortal ears._

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Alhazred glared at the Consensus from the chair he was manacled to. Light-restricting measures that prevented him from summoning his Ghost or disappearing in an implosion of voidlight. Behind his mask, the Speaker’s expression was regretful as he looked at the Warlock on trial. He recalled the poised and polished poet. That was not the Alhazred who sat in front of him now. This man was ragged. His clothes were stained with blood that the Speaker could only hope was Alhazred’s own. His hair was unkept and unwashed, mats and tangles framing a bony face and haunted eyes.

They had caught Alhazred when he had returned from one of his unsanctioned excursions. The Speaker had attempted to corral him before this and interrogate him about his research, but the Warlock was slippery and seemed to possess some unnatural way of moving between shadows. The exile of Toland the Shattered was still fresh in the Speaker’s mind, but Alhazred was different. Whatever he had tapped into was not the Hive, nor anything the Speaker had ever seen. Toland had been lucid when he was exiled. Alhazred had gone too far. Whatever he had found had clearly driven him mad. He had only been caught this time because he had collapsed in a courtyard of the Tower, screaming incoherent verse, and had remained unresponsive long enough to be detained.

And yet he smiled. He grinned like a corpse, showing too many teeth.

“Do you?” he replied, staring directly at the Speaker.

“I am not the one on trial here,” the Speaker said. “If you have nothing to say, we will move to vote.”

“The sun will go out and those blinded by the Light will be left scrabbling in the Dark.” Alhazred laughed, thrashing in his bindings. “Pray and pray to an uncaring god, you will die alone and afraid, never an answer given.”

“Alhazred, you have been found guilty of the crime of consorting with the Darkness and engaging in unsanctioned research and forbidden rituals. The Consensus will now vote on your punishment: exile or execution.”

“I have seen the darkness between stars, I have heard a thousand voices sing in a language not spoken since the dawn of time,” he shouted. “I have embraced that which stalks in the night and hungers.”

The Speaker turned to the Faction Leaders.

“Executor?”

“Exile.”

“Arach?”

“Exile.”

“Concordat?”

“Execution.”

“ _Ymg’ ah mglw'nafh hnah llll mgepuaaah mglw'nafh r'luh ph'nglui ye'bthnk ot mglw'nafh_ ,” Alhazred shrieked. The inhuman syllables ripped out of his throat and sent a chill down the Speaker’s spine. Alhazred thrashed again.

“All you will ever do is  _die_ ,” he spat.

The Speaker turned to the members of the Vanguard.

“Lord Saladin?”

“Execution.”

“Andal?”

“Hm…” The Hunter sighed and fidgeted. “Execution.”

“Osiris?”

Osiris looked at Alhazred for a long moment, thoughtful, his expression unreadable. “Exile,” he said, eventually. Three to three. The decision, as it often did, came down to the Speaker. Alhazred had not moved his gaze from the Speaker during the vote. He tilted his head slightly and something in his eyes changed. His gaze was clear and present. For a moment, the Speaker recognized him. The poet was calm. Collected. Confident. There was no fear in his eyes, no madness or malice.

And he smiled.

And his smile was almost sympathetic.

“Will killing me make you less afraid of the dark?” he asked softly.

The Speaker hesitated.

“… exile.”

**Author's Note:**

> R'lyehian Translation: You are a dead thing made by a dead power in the shape of the dead. 
> 
> (from The Black Garden grimoire card, thrown into a R'lyehian translator, so the literal translation is somewhat whack, but it's close enough)


End file.
